


Dust Bowl Dance

by karmakatelyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Feels, Gen, Open Ending, Pre-Season 1, Song-inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmakatelyn/pseuds/karmakatelyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There will come a time I will look in your eye<br/>You will pray to the God that you always denied<br/>The I’ll go out back and I’ll get my gun<br/>I’ll say, “You haven’t met me, I am the only son”</p><p>Inspired by the Mumford & Sons song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust Bowl Dance

It had been a sweltering hot afternoon when Sam had announced his plans to go to Stanford and stop hunting.

There had been an explosion, as the youngest Winchester had expected, and then tense, rigid silence for the rest of the day. Sam hadn’t even bothered trying to join them at dinner, but even Dean and John were eerily quiet, as if their voices had been sucked out of them. The house was quiet— but there’s always a calm before the storm.

Shortly after Dean and John finished eating, Sam came down the stairs, toting a large suitcase behind him and a duffel bag over his shoulder. All that went through the oldest Winchester son’s head was shit. He was in awe, struck dumb by his brother’s guts as he stated that he’d called a cab and was going to take a bus to Stanford. “I already bought my ticket and accepted my scholarship,” he said, and for several moments John was silent, but what happened next was even worse.

“If you step out that door you’re no longer my son.” It was straightforward and simple— no yelling, no swearing, just a statement of fact.

Sam forced a bitter laugh. “Sorry for wanting an education, dad. I don’t want to hunt monsters for the rest of my life.”

Dean’s breath caught in his throat as his baby brother moved towards the door. “Sammy, don’t do this,” he just barely forced out, finding himself rooted to the ground and unable to move towards him, to try and get him to stop.

Sam glanced back at him for only a second, but said nothing as he opened the door and stepped out onto their rickety porch. John followed, his body tense, hands balled into fists at his sides. Numbly, Dean followed suit.

“Don’t you every try coming back!” John yelled as his youngest son approached the curb, one fist pressing against the faded white column of the porch.

“Don’t hold your breath for that!” Sam yelled back.

Dean watched in agonizing horror as his brother disappeared into the back of the cab and rode off down the street, leaving both of them in the dust.

It was the last time he would ever see him.

From then on, it was as if Sam had never existed. He and John continued hunting as a pair for awhile, moving around more than they had before and making sure to cover their tracks. Dean was fairly certain that it was so that Sam couldn’t track them down, but he never vocalized his thoughts. After a while, they started taking separate hunts, keeping in touch almost daily to make sure they were both still alive. Slowly, their contact started to drift— Dean’s phone remained silent more often, and when it did go off, he generally ignored it. He only dialed his father’s number when he was done with or picking up a case.

In the first few weeks, he found himself dialing Sam’s number out of habit— only to stop himself right before hitting ‘call’. He probably changed it anyway, he thought to himself, and he was the one to walk out on us. The number remained untouched in his phone, but he never forgot it. That was impossible— it was drilled into his head, in case of emergencies. If his dad didn’t answer, then his brother would.

But could he even consider Sam his brother anymore?

He did leave you, his subconscious told him as he slipped through the quiet, dim halls of the latest vampire nest he had tracked down, Dad warned him, and he still left. Dean stalked up to one of the sleeping bastards and sliced clean through his neck with the machete before it could wake up and alert the others. He gave up being your brother. Another clean slice. Where were the others? Two vampires in a nest wasn’t likely. If he valued you and Dad, he wouldn’t have left after Dad told him not to.

“Well, that answers that…” he hissed under his breath as he whipped around to just barely decapitate a vampire that had tried to catch him from behind. The next one managed to grab him by the back of his jacket and throw him into the closest wall, earning a violent swear as he tried to stumble to his feet. He’d be helping you take out these sons of bitches right now, if he really cared.

Dean hacked through the attacking vampire’s neck, chopping and forcing it through the hard spinal cord, succeeding in removing its head. Breathing heavily, he glanced around at the decapitated bodies strewn about the nest. Four. Dad doesn’t even talk about him anymore. It’s been months. Why do you care? He’d thought there would be about six of them— but he’d gone through the entire house and nothing. Maybe two of them escaped— he’d look for them later.

He knows your number. If he cared, he’d be calling you. On tired legs, he left the house and began to walk towards the beat up pick-up his dad had acquired for him. It wasn’t the Impala, but John had a special affection for the car, so Dean wasn’t going to complain too much about not getting the chance to drive it around. You tried to stop him. He didn’t care.

As Dean climbed into the driver’s seat and slumped back against the worn and torn cloth covering, the familiar chords of Smoke on the Water started to chime from his pocket. Wearily pulling it out, he flipped it open and pressed it to his ear, eyes closing. Maybe he’d get the chance to nap before skipping down.

“Dean.”

“What’s up, Dad?” he replied, muffling a yawn with the back of his hand and starting up the truck..

“I caught a lead on Yellow Eyes.”

“Yeah? Where at?”

“That’s not important. How did the vampires go?” There was a loud rumbling that nearly overpowered his dad’s words that sounded very much like Baby revving up.

“I think two of the bastards got away.” Dean glanced down at the clock in the truck’s dashboard. The little green lights blinked 3:48. “But I ganked the other four.”

For a moment, John didn’t reply. Then his raspy voice came over the line again. “That’s my boy. Alright. Keep in touch.” And then the line went dead.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean closed his phone and tossed it onto the passenger’s seat before backing off the gravelly driveway and onto the dusty dirt road that would eventually take him to the deserted highway somewhere in Montana. A ‘lead on Yellow Eyes’ could mean anything— it could mean that he’s somewhere in the States still, half-way around the world, or digging his own grave. No matter what the lead was, he knew he wouldn’t be hearing from his father for at least another week or two, either until he was damnably sure that the lead was a bust or the fucker was dead.

So when his phone rang three days later, he was extremely caught off guard.

He’d picked up the trail of a banshee in the Irish neighborhoods of New York and had spent most of the afternoon in the mythology section of the library, trying to block out his subconscious and its incessant repetition of his father’s words. That’s my boy. Sam isn’t ‘his boy’ anymore, Dean. You are. Only you. After his seventh straight hour trying to decide whether or not a sharpened stake of a willow grown in Ireland would kill it, he decided to call it a day, flipping the book closed and stretching as he stood.

Sam would’ve found out if it works by now. Dean grumbled under his breath as he walked back to the pick up, fumbling for his keys and groaning in exhaustion as he pulled himself into the cab. But it’s okay. You’re Dad’s only son now. That’s all that matters.

He flopped onto the bed without even bothering to take off his boots as soon as he stepped into the sleazy motel he had booked for the next few nights, a weary groan escaping him as he relaxed into the itchy blanket and old mattress. His eyes drifted shut as he laid there, figuring he could enjoy a few hours of sleep before nightfall and he was back on the path of trying to find the banshee.

Right before he conked out, his phone went off. For a few moments he heavily debated on just letting it go to voicemail, but then he remembered that the only person that had his number (The only person that would actually call you, his subconscious reminded him) was his dad.

Hastily he sat up and launched himself over to grab his phone off the side table, flipping it open as soon as he got his hands on it. “Dad? You alright?”

“Is this Dean Young?”

Wait. That wasn’t his dad’s voice. Immediately, Dean sat and straightened up, his eyebrows furrowing together. “Yes, who is this?”

There was some shuffling on the other end of the line. “My name is Andrew Rogers— I’m a police officer here in Wichita.”

Dean’s blood ran cold. “A cop? Why do you have my father’s phone?”

More shuffling and some talking in the background. He could’ve sworn he heard the words ‘son’ and ‘have to tell him’. Then, Officer Rogers spoke again. “Your father was found this morning in his motel room, Mr. Young. It looks like he committed suicide.”

It was hard to breathe— the room felt like it was closing in on him, choking the life out of him. Leaving him as dead and lifeless as his father.

“Mr. Young?”

“Where in Wichita? I’ll be there in a day.”

As he climbed into the pick up and called the motel to cancel his reservation, the only thought that ran through his head was who’s going to tell Sammy?

It took him twenty hours straight, magically avoiding any speed traps and refusing to stop to eat or sleep. It was only as he entered Wichita’s city limits that he picked up his phone and dialed his younger brother’s number without so much as looking down at the phone. As he sped down the road to the precinct, a loud, violent oath left him as he received a dial tone and automated response. “Sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected, or is no longer in service…”

“Goddamn it, Sammy!” he nearly screamed, beating his hand on the steering wheel as he pulled into the parking lot, biting back tears as he climbed out of the truck and practically ran into the office, ignoring his phone on the passenger seat. I hate to say I told you so.

“May I help you?” The lady at the front desk gave him a curious look, but Dean knew she was on edge. He hadn’t slept, probably looked like Hell chewed him up and spat him out again, and was on the verge of tears.

“My dad was found dead yesterday.”

Immediately she sobered up, giving him a solemn nod before picking up the phone and calling for Officer Rogers. Dean paced restlessly as he waited for him to show up, and when he finally did it took all of his self restraint not to take out his anger and frustration and depression on the respectfully solemn officer that asked him to follow him back into his office.

“What happened?” Dean forced out, not even allowing the other to speak before breaking right into the conversation.

Rogers gestured for him to take a seat in front of the desk. “When they found him yesterday, there was a long knife protruding from his chest, Mr. Young. The only finger prints that were on the handle matched your father’s.”

He forced himself to swallow as he sat, his heart pounding in his chest. The moment I find that damned yellow-eyed demon… “So you think he killed himself?”

There was a moment of silence before the officer nodded. “There was no evidence of foul play or forced entry. Your father didn’t have a written will, I assume?”

Dean didn’t relax, his hands balled into fists on his knees. He forced out a bitter “no”, not wanting to risk saying more for fear of his dams breaking. He wouldn’t cry. Not in front of an officer of the law.

Rogers nodded once. “Very well then. Are you his last remaining kin? We can’t find anything on a John Young family wise, but there was a picture of you and another guy in his wallet with a number on the back.”

“Yeah, just me and-” he stopped. “Yeah. Just me. Mom died a long time ago.”

“Very well. All he had in his possession was the car, and this.” He slid a small, crumpled piece of paper over to Dean, nodding at him as he went to pick it up. “He had it in his hand— forensics looked it over, but they can’t trace it to anything that might help in the investigation.”

We were hoping you could tell us. Dean caught the underlying message well, but he’d never seen that piece of paper in his life. He smoothed it out slowly, his breath catching slightly at the one word that was written on it, but said nothing and didn’t allow his surprise to be read on his face. “I have no idea.”

“You don’t have any family in the area? Any enemies?”

Dean shook his head. Officer Rogers slumped back in his chair, running a hand through his hair and sighing. “Alright. You can go, then- the car is in the impound lot, if you want it talk to Officer Morris up front. We’ll be in touch once the autopsy is done, so that you can arrange funeral rites.”

Folding up the slip of paper and pocketing it, the Winchester shook the officer’s extended hand and stood, numbly wishing him a good day before walking out of the office and speaking quietly to the lady up front about receiving Baby. Not really caring about the pick up, he left it in the metered lot before driving off to the nearest motel.

He wouldn’t sleep- no, he couldn’t sleep. Once he was situated in the room he pulled out the paper again to run his fingers over the smeared pencil scratches. It was incredible how one word could explain everything. Dean knew exactly what he had to do, where he had to go in order to finish his father’s work. Ripping it into shreds, he stood and strode into the bathroom, dropping the shredded pieces into the toilet before flushing. He watched as the paper disappeared into the sewers, his hands clenching into fists as he lashed out and slammed his left hand into the wall.

It took another day for him to receive the body, and then he drove off into the middle of nowhere to give his father a proper hunter’s burial. As the flames licked along John Winchester’s body and crackled around the salt, Dean was unable to avoid the prickling at his eyes, and he allowed himself several moments of weakness as the flames started to die down and disappear into the dirt.

Then, he got into the Impala and drove.

Thirty hours later, having sped through most of the deserted roads and stopped at a rest area to sleep for a few hours, Dean rolled into Stanford, California. It wasn’t hard to find the campus, but what was difficult was figuring out just where his brother was staying. He glanced around as he walked down the street, having parked Baby in a nearby parking garage to avoid drawing attention to himself. He’d shoved his gun down the back of his pants and tucked his jacket around it so as to hide it from view, but he was tense and his fingers twitched every time a particularly loud noise caught his ears.

He didn’t allow himself to wander onto the campus, but took his time looking around, trying to find a likely place that his father had been trying to lead him towards. So far it had been a bust, but he had to find it at some point- he had to find this damn demon.

“Well, well, well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise.”

Dean whipped around, his eyes narrowing as his hand automatically went to grip the handle of his gun behind him.

“Now, now, you don’t want to frighten the locals, do you?” A grin stretched across the face of an older man leaning against a wall barely six feet away from the hunter.

Dean’s fingers flexed around the smooth metal of the gun, but slowly he let go and let his hand fall to his side, even if his entire body was more tense than it had probably ever been in his entire life. “What the hell are you doing here, demon?”

Yellow Eyes tsked lightly and shook his head, glancing over Dean’s shoulders to look at the long expanse of the Stanford campus behind them. “No reason. Just keeping an eye on family, Dean?” He flashed him another cocky grin, his hands slipping to tuck into his vessel’s pockets casually.

“Family?” A sharp pain shot through him as he played dumb, his answer coming out forced. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My family’s dead.”

The demon’s eyebrows rose in what Dean assumed was surprise, before a laugh escaped him. “Oh, really? Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it? I could’ve sworn that Sammy boy was your brother.”

Another sharp stab. “No. I’m the only Winchester left- the only son of John Winchester.”

For several long minutes, Yellow Eyes and Dean remained completely silent, disregarding the consistent hustle and bustle of the city moving around them. Dean was highly considering blowing a hole in the bastard; even if it might not kill him, it would make him feel better. But given the location… not the best idea.

“Well, then, Dean. I’d suggest next time you come after me, you’re better prepared than a little pig sticker.” Yellow Eyes winked, his eyes flashing once before disappearing.

Dean’s hand tightened into a fist at his side as he whipped around to try and figure out where the hell the demon went— but to no avail. “What do you want with Sammy?” he hissed to himself, looking around, his eyes wide with panic. Don’t worry about him. He’s not family. You told him yourself.

For the next few, long months, the Winchester devoted himself to trying to find a way to destroy the yellow-eyed demon. Most websites and lore suggested an exorcism, but Dean knew that if the demon had gotten the jump on his dad, a simple exorcism would do absolutely nothing. Before long he was more than ready to just throw himself at the creature and give it everything he could to try and kill him, but that’s when he discovered his dad’s journal.

Dean spent several days just flipping through it, finding the different monsters that his father had fought and the notes he’d taken in order to remember the best way to get rid of them. There was one page in particular that caught his eye, though, one that he thought would be exactly what he needed.

“The Colt…?” he muttered, running his fingers over the yellowed paper as he examined his father’s familiar script. Kill any supernatural creature. Number of bullets: ??. Daniel Elkins. Licking his lips, Dean closed the journal and drove to the nearest library, sitting down to work heavily on the research of Daniel Elkins and this supposed gun that could kill anything. It didn’t take long to track the man down, and he wasted no time driving overnight to reach Colorado. After some… careful bribery, Dean walked back to Baby with the Colt and the remaining bullets in hand.

Five bullets. That left four test shots— three, just to be safe. Dean tracked down a werewolf first, watching in awe as the bullet tore through its chest, the flesh deteriorating around it like some sort of acid. The agonizing scream of the werewolf as it died haunted him for days, but not nearly as badly as the knowledge that he could kill the yellow-eyed bastard now.

It took him months to figure out how he would be able to track down a demon he didn’t even know the name of, but word got out that he had managed to get a hold of the Colt. Before long, Dean was facing down demons left and right— even if he didn’t know where they were, they definitely know where he was. He killed two more of the Yellow Eyed bastard’s minions with the Colt before they stopped showing up, but Dean didn’t stop preparing. He claimed a small, run down shack on the outskirts of Chicago, stocking it with salt and only leaving when he absolutely had to.

“Our master, Azazel, will be paying you a visit soon,” one particular demon had stated with a malevolent grin as Dean trickled holy water along its exposed arms. “He hopes you’ll be ready for him, Dean Winchester.”

That had been the last of the demons that he’d finished off with the Colt, and he’d been preparing ever since. He knew the demon’s name now, and, after actively spending his time tracking down the most accurate spell to summon a demon, felt like his nerves were on fire as he set up the necessary herbs and candles to perform the summoning. He prayed it would work, even though he doubted anything was truly listening. He couldn’t take any chances— not now, not after everything.

The match burned hot between his fingers as he recited the Latin. There were a few times when he nearly dropped it preemptively, but caught himself just in time, making sure to drop the match just as he finished the last word. A sudden burst of smoke swirled up, the dark plumes edged with a golden yellow.

“Hello again, Dean.” The words came from behind him, and Dean slowly turned to face Azazel, the yellow-eyed son of a bitch he longed to destroy. “A little birdie told me that you captured the Colt. Is that so?”

His eyes narrowed at the demon, his fingers twitching anxiously at his side. No, he wouldn’t rush this. He couldn’t. This had been too long in the making— he was going to savor destroying Azazel. Instead of speaking, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the aged metal pistol, his thumb brushing over the Latin engraved into it. Azazel went still for a moment before his eyes flashed yellow, moving from the gun to Dean, and then back to the gun.

“You don’t think I’ll roll over and die that easily, do you?” the demon asked with a dry chuckle, lacing his fingers together as he began to walk towards the Winchester, only to stop a step later.

A small smirk twitched on Dean’s lips as he glanced upwards, where Azazel’s own eyes soon followed. The flickering candlelight barely illuminated the roof, but one thing was more than visible— the carving into the wood roof in the shape of a large Devil’s Trap. “See, I didn’t expect you to just let me shoot you. And that’s why it took me so long to actually summon you.”

Dean lifted the gun and pointed it directly at Azazel, ignoring the demon’s pointed smirk as he cocked the pistol. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time, you son of a bitch.”

His finger flexed, about to pull the trigger, when a sudden surge of heat threw him crashing into the altar and skidding across the floor, the Colt skidding away. Flames licked up the walls of the shack and along the roof, quickly burning through the wood holding Azazel in place. “You stupid, stupid boy.” The demon appeared only inches away from Dean, pulling him up and shoving him against the burning wall closest. Azazel’s eyes had glazed over entirely in yellow, fixing him with a soulless, proud stare.

“If you were only half the hunter your brother was, well… maybe this would have gone differently,” Azazel hissed, his hand gripping Dean’s shirt tighter and pressing him harder into the wood. “As for how this ended up, well, I can’t say I’m surprised. You always did rush into things.”

Dean’s eyes darted from Azazel to the gun, panic beginning to course through him as he tried to think of a plan, any plan. Anything to get him the upper hand again so he could kill this motherfucker. “Your brother is quite an asset, though… he’s climbing the ranks fast.”

“I… don’t… I don’t… have a brother!” he forced out, one hand gripping tight at Azazel’s wrist as the other went down to the holy water soaked knife he had stuck in his back pocket, whipping it out and slicing at the demon’s hand. He wasn’t able to enjoy the soft sizzling of flesh as he was dropped, throwing himself at the Colt in a desperate attempt to avoid death.

Azazel chuckled again, shaking his head as he stepped towards the hunter, the wound on his hand healing as if nothing had even touched it. “Oh, but you do, Dean. Just because you don’t consider him to be family anymore, trust me. His blood is still yours.”

The Colt was in his hand. “Sam abandoned us— he didn’t bother staying in touch, he ignored the warnings. I have no brother.” Dean stood and pointed the gun at the demon again, pulling the trigger as he said his last words. “I am the only son.”

The bullet ripped out of the Colt at breakneck speed and tore into the temple of whatever poor fucker Azazel was riding, the skin around the entry wound cracking and sizzling and beginning to decay. Flames snapped up and hissed as Azazel’s body jerked, black smoke oozing out of his temple and a sharp, red and yellow light crackling, his eyes going yellow and then fading into brown; then his body fell to the ground, lifeless.

A heavy, choked breath left Dean as the adrenaline began to fade and his heart began to return to a normal pace. Smoke began to choke him, but he slid to the ground, not wanting to move. He’d done what he had to; death would be a welcome release now. The bastard was dead- he’d completed his revenge and his father’s lifelong mission. He allowed his eyes to drift shut as he inhaled deeply and coughed, his blood pounding in his ears, too loud to hear the sirens.

Bye, Sammy, was his last thought as the world went black.


End file.
